


Chaos Theory

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, College AU, F/F, F/M, FitzSkimmons - Freeform, Fluff, MeetCute, Multi, Polyamory, Shield-Free AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 08:23:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8094967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: I was prompted to stretch my poly wings and try one where they're all unattached and a little more hesitant, and much to even my surprise, this happened.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been nicer before and it hasn't worked so *clears throat*
> 
> THIS FIC CONTAINS A POLYAMOROUS RELATIONSHIP.  
> IF YOU ARE NOT PREPARED TO READ ABOUT A POLYAMOROUS RELATIONSHIP, KINDLY EXIT OUT OF THIS FIC.  
> DO NOT BE AN ASSHAT DO NOT COLLECT $200.
> 
> And for those of you who *are* prepared and/or looking forward to reading about polyam FitzSkimmons: enjoy!! and you're welcome to give me suggestions/prompts in the comments or on tumblr (theclaravoyant)

Fitz’ phone began to vibrate. He tried to ignore it, to focus on completing the framework of his latest project, but the sound of the vibrations set off internal alarm bells. A reminder of something.

_“Shit.”_

He cursed and leapt up from his seat, stuffing his notebook into his bag and spinning around to check he hadn’t knocked the fragile scaffold off the desk before lunging out the door across the minefield of dirty laundry, and running out of the dorm as fast as he could. 

He reached the biology building breathless, and spun around on the spot in the foyer looking for directive signs. Never be late to somewhere you’d never been, he’d always tried to tell himself; if you were, you’d be guaranteed to end up being later than you’d anticipated. Fortunately, there was a large billboard-esque sign above a cabinet on the wall, which detailed the inner workings of the building. 

“1-3-1, 1-3-1,” he muttered, looking for the room ID of his lecture theatre amongst the list. It was on the first floor, on the other side of the building. _“Brilliant.”_ He rolled his eyes and hitched his bag higher onto his shoulder, and sped off toward the stairs, only to run into what felt like a brick wall. 

It was not a wall, of course, but a young woman. She had eyes that shone like onyx, entrancing him for a moment as she baulked, eyes widening, just as shocked as he was. 

“Sorry-“ 

“Sorry-“ 

They blurted it out at the same time. They stood for a moment longer, stunned, and then Fitz lunged at the ground, suddenly realizing that he had knocked half of her books from her grasp, and it was the only gentlemanly thing to do, to return them, rushed or no. 

“I – um – thank you,” the girl stammered, as Fitz pressed her books back into her arms. In truth, she’d barely registered them having fallen. “Um…Daisy…is my name. What’s yours?” 

“I’m…running late…” Fitz murmured absently, turning on the spot as he looked for a stray pencil or anything that might have rolled away.

“Actually, I am too,” Daisy said. “I’m looking for Poli Sci, do you know where that is..?”

She trailed off, since he didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was staring at the floor. All of a sudden, he seemed to register the few seconds of silence that had passed, and met her eyes sharply. He pulled out a pen from his jacket pocket, and dropped it on top of her pile. 

“Poli Sci’s in Humanities,” he explained. “With History. I have to go.”

And then he took off, leaping the stairs three at a time, and leaving Daisy to wonder;

“…Then why is it called Poli _Sci?”_

-

Fitz ran past a few rows of chairs and slipped into a seat on the corridor, trying to minimise his visible breathlessness as much as possible while he thanked his lucky stars the lecture hadn’t started yet, and fumbled around for a pen. He cursed under his breath, remembering that he’d left his pencil case on his desk, and the pen in his jacket he’d given into the girl he’d bumped into – Daisy – because he must have been the reason she’d lost hers. So it was his own fault really. But still, he groaned. 

“Well, _you_ look thrilled to be here.”

The commentator was quiet, almost speaking to herself, but bitter. And, if Fitz was not mistaken, English. Fitz looked to his side, from whence the voice had come, and saw a girl; younger than most of the class, like he was, and for some reason having willingly chosen to wear a blazer. Her hair was spotlessly, flawlessly drawn back, but her pencil case was patchwork, and her pens a mismatched collection of regular biros and logo-stamped promotional gifts. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, and tried to make himself more presentable. Clearing his throat and humbling his expression, he asked; “Do you mind if I borrow a pen?”

She raised a critical eyebrow, and looked him up and down. 

“Why? Didn’t have time to fit one into your busy morning schedule?”

In fairness, his shirt was crumpled, his hair resembled an overgrown sheep and he’d be lucky if his clothing was stain-free, but still, something about the crinkle of her nose brought out the competitor in him. 

“No, actually,” he retorted. “I was busy inventing. Which is what I signed up to do. Not this bloody…core unit rubbish.”

She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, and turned her eyes to her notebook although there was nothing yet to write. 

“Typical Engineering student,” she chided. “Core units are intended to give you a proper and full scientific base. Biology and chemistry are essential studies of the natural world, for all you ‘inventors’ might like to resist that.”

Fitz squirmed in his seat, his fist clenching around the pen that she had, apparently, handed him and he had taken without having noticed. Gratitude softened his indignance for a moment - but only a moment.

 _“Excuse you,”_ he retorted in a strangled tone. “I really would like to hear your definition of ‘invention’ if you think all we try to do is ‘resist’ the natural world. I’d like to see how far you biologists could have gotten without your telescopes and your microscopes. Or, y’know, the car. Or the internet. Or glasses! Or the wheel-“ 

“Alright!” the English girl threw up her hands. “I understand. I misspoke, I’m sorry. Inventors are very valuable. It’s just the engineers who are vain and insufferable.” 

Fitz glared as she smugly shuffled and smiled victoriously down at her page, on which she was beginning to draw. 

“I think you should pay attention,” she prompted. “They’ll be talking about evolution first.” 

“I know what _evolution_ is,” Fitz hissed. But he adjusted the table fixed to his chair as best he could, and looked down to where the lecture was beginning. For a while, they had his attention, but once they moved into cell mutation he began to drift again. His eyes were drawn back to the girl beside him, who had apparently been drawing this entire time. 

“Um,” he interjected, “what was that about needing to pay attention?”

Immediately he was fixed with the most chillingly sarcastic glare he’d ever seen. 

“I said _you_ need to pay attention,” she corrected. “I’ve already done this a billion times.”

“A billion?”

Fitz raised an eyebrow and the girl puffed out her chest.

“Plus, it’s not like I was _completely_ off topic,” she added, and turned her notebook to face him. Several illustrations of monkeys, in various styles, decorated her page, and he frowned, studying them.

“What kind is that?” he wondered, prodding at one where she had vaguely attempted realism. She blushed a little, and pulled the page back toward herself. 

“It’s a cartoon,” she insisted defensively, “it’s not trying to be one in particular.”

Realising he had insulted her, Fitz softened his expression.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he assured her. “It’s just – it could be a Capuchin, almost, except the cheeks would look more like this –“

He reached for the book, but waited for her to surrender it to him before sketching in a Capuchin next to hers. Caught up in his drawing, he missed the way her jaw dropped a little at his skill.  
  
“Wow,” she murmured. “You’re really good.” 

“Thank you.” Fitz couldn’t help but smile…and maybe puff his chest out a little, in pride. He spun the borrowed pen dexterously over his fingers, and slid the notebook back to her smoothly. 

“Seriously, where did you learn to draw like that?” she pressed. Fitz shrugged. 

“There’s a lot of art involved in design. You get good.”

“I’d love to see it some time. Your other work. I mean, if you don’t mind. I promise I won’t steal it or anything. Not that there’d be much point, I suppose, since I don’t understand it, and therefore, wouldn’t be able to repeat it…”

She trailed off, and Fitz bit his lip to repress a smile. What kind of person said ‘therefore’ while babbling? And at what point in the conversation had her voice turned from irritated to fascinated, or from grating to endearing? He shook his head. What a strange girl, and what a strange fascination he had with her. 

-

The boy shook his head. Pitiful? Embarrassed for her? Simmons sunk in her seat, but couldn’t help drawing her fingers over his illustration, still quite in awe. She hadn’t expected someone so scruffy and careless to produce such beauty. She should have known better than to fall prey to such an assumption, but her scolding of herself had taken a back seat to the quiet, magnetic way he drew her attention.

Even now, as he resumed half-hearted note-taking – and now sketching in between – Simmons’ eyes were drawn to him. To his face, and the way he almost seemed to talk to himself while he drew. To his neck and his shoulders: he held his breath when rushing to finish something. To the curve and the tendons of his hands: firm and confident but somehow almost effortless with their touch. Objectively speaking, watching him was both more interesting and more valuable than listening to another speech about mitosis. Not to mention, the squeezy feeling her heart got when she looked at him – it was not faster per se, but perhaps a little louder, as if her heart was jumping with every beat – was quite pleasant.

 _And addictive,_ she reminded herself, finally convincing herself to look away. It took considerably more coaxing to keep her eyes on the page. She managed it by trying to mimic his sketch more closely, which was something of a happy medium for her fluttering heart. She reminded herself with a tiny, scrawled shorthand note in the corner of the page, to check what was happening with her hormones the next time she got the chance. Her roommate was also making her heart pound and her cheeks flush, and really, with semester only just kicking off, she couldn’t afford to go mooning after every person that crossed her path. There were only going to be more of them from here on out. 

 _Maybe I should just go to the Boiler Room,_ she pondered. Have some drinks, flirt it out of her system. Maybe even have some sex. That should do the trick quite nicely. She smiled, and began planning the perfect, respectable-yet-sufficiently-alluring outfit. It had to be rich. Showy – in both style and skin. It had to demonstrate that she was out for flirting and fun, not looking for something serious. She was out to quash the heart flutter, not feed it. And she almost had the perfect idea, too.

-

Daisy chewed on the end of her pen. She’d tried to stop herself, since it wasn’t her pen and she had no idea who had chewed on it before her, but her thoughts had been going round and round her head just begging to be chewed out. This was a good chewing pen, too.

Poli Sci – political science – was in the Humanities building because Social Sciences didn’t have a building to itself, and somebody had decided that Politics was more of a humanitarian discipline than a scientific one. That had been Daisy’s initial question, which had resolved itself quickly since apparently, a lot of people had been late for the same reason she had.

Well, probably not for the _exact_ same reason. 

Which had got Daisy thinking about the man who’d run into her in the hallway. Her thoughts kept wandering back to him throughout the lesson. Surely he’d just been distracted, but why? It couldn’t have been the lateness alone, or he probably would have just left her there. He’d wanted to talk to her. Just being nice, or maybe, stunned?

Daisy smiled to herself as she chewed the pen. Her game was a lot stronger than she must have thought if she could have stunned a man just by letting him walk into her. Perhaps she should try that more often. Then again…letting herself be ‘stumbled into’ by randoms could result in some considerably less innocent encounters, she predicted. Perhaps she would just have to find that particular man again, and see if he was just as frazzled the second time around. If he was just as frazzled, and just as kind – or at least so he’d seemed, replacing a pen she’d never had in the first place – then perhaps she’d stumbled upon something herself. It could be a fresh and healthy departure from her usual type. Then again, it could be a boring one too.

She sighed.

Now Jemma: there would be an interesting departure from her usual type. She was a bit of a goody-two-shoes to the outside world, but Daisy was sure it was only because she preferred to be that way. When what Jemma wanted was sufficiently contrary to the rules, they meant almost nothing. She lived in her own world of logic and morals, and though she tended to present herself in an uptight and conservative way, Daisy knew she was anything but. The rebel in her couldn’t help but be aroused, both intellectually and physiologically.

If only she had the guts to bring it up.

Daisy doubted Jemma would be repulsed by the concept, but Daisy figured, having to share a room with someone you have a one-sided crush on would be pain, no matter which genders were involved. Perhaps she could put it to Simmons one night when they were out on the town, looking for fun and relaxation? She had no doubt it would be fun. But then, it could also mean closing the door on an actual potential relationship, which Daisy wasn’t quite ready to give up on just yet.

So she sat in Limbo, chewing her pen and letting her thoughts swing between the man with the pen and the woman she lived with and the Industrial Revolution…with increasingly less focus on the latter.

-

“Daisyyyyyyy,” Simmons pleaded. “Come out with me? Please? I need a wing woman. Big time.”

Daisy forced her eyes to stay on her screen. She’d been doing a lot of thinking about certain elements of Jemma today that might make going out together in sexy dresses and drinking a lot, a much more awkward experience than it needed to be. 

“And get dropped for the first pair of biceps with a symmetrical face that looks your way? Ha. No thank you.” Daisy snorted derisively. “Jemma Simmons prowls alone. You need winged eyeliner, not a wing-woman.”

Daisy figured the compliment would shake Jemma off, but she was persistent: she disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, and bounced back to Daisy’s bed with a stick of liquid eyeliner.

“Can you do it for me then?” she begged.

Daisy took a deep breath, and reminded herself to act natural. She’d done this a hundred times. Stared into her roommate’s eyes a hundred times. Brushed her fingers along the curves of her cheeks a hundred times. Done her best to make the roommate look as alluring as possible a hundred times. She’d never made a move from here before, but her breath had never caught in her chest before, like it did when Jemma’s eyes had suddenly fluttered open, and she’d grabbed Daisy’s wrist; lightly, but enough to shock.

After a few frozen seconds, Daisy recovered. 

“What is it?”

And maybe it was just Daisy, but she could have sworn Jemma blushed as she shut her eyes again.

“…Nothing,” Jemma assured her. “Sorry. Keep going.”

She let her face soften under Daisy’s touch, giving herself over to it. Perhaps she had just been paranoid, until that point, of the eyeliner so close to her eye, but somewhere inside her, Daisy knew it wasn’t just that. And Daisy carried Jemma’s soft, secret expression with her after that, though it set her heart to pining. 

If only she had the nerve to ask.

“Are you done yet?” Jemma wondered softly, after she had not felt the pen on her eyelid for some time. 

“Oh. Yeah. Of course, sorry.” Daisy cleared her throat, and brushed her hands on her pants for good measure. “Just…just admiring my work.” 

Jemma opened her eyes slowly, and watched Daisy settle back on the bed, behind her laptop. 

“Are you _sure_ you won’t come with me?” Jemma offered. 

“I’m sure,” Daisy confirmed, although her tone was a little strained this time. “I’ve got work to do, you know. Another time. But you look great, you’ll do fine.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.” 

A flicker of hurt crossed Simmons’ face, and then she replaced it with a beaming grin. 

“Which shoes should I wear?” 

“The gold ones. Definitely.”

“Brilliant!”

Daisy didn’t get much work done for the next few minutes, instead watching as Simmons fastened her shoes and finalized her last few belongings. Simmons turned in the doorway before she left, with an expression Daisy couldn’t quite read. Had she been about to object to Daisy’s staring? Or ditch her outing? Perhaps she had been on the verge of rethinking all her decisions, and flying back to Daisy’s bed, for the eyeliner and cleavage dip and heels to work all the magic she had intended them to?

 _Calm down,_ Daisy almost whispered to herself. Apparently she had thought herself into quite a state today. Next stop: cold shower.

“Have fun!” she insisted, eager for Jemma to leave before she visually undressed her any further. This time, Jemma definitely blushed as she nodded and farewelled Daisy, and headed off on her merry way.

-

The next morning, Fitz was early to his computing class. Almost fifteen minutes early, since he’d been trying to make up for the morning before. He pulled out his workbook, eager to use the spare minutes on the design in which he’d been enraptured before it came time to get dressed, but in the flurry to get to class, he’d pulled himself into a different headspace. One where he was strangely preoccupied with an English girl of whom he had realised the night before, he did not know the name; and even more surprisingly, one where he was actually looking forward to biology, for the chance to find it out.

“Hey, is this seat - Oh my God. It’s you.”

A voice from out of sight made him turn, and his jaw dropped. The woman he’d bumped into the day before – Daisy - was standing by an empty chair, staring incredulously. Her eyes were still as rich as Fitz remembered them, but now he noticed more of her. He noticed the way her hair was cut short: it spoke to him of power and passion, but it was still soft enough to frame her face with a degree of…was it delicacy? Her shoulders, too, she held like a lady: dainty, but toned, and clearly strong enough for him to wonder what she did to keep them that way.

“It’s you,” Fitz murmured back as Daisy sat, planning for how he would continue this encounter and coming up with only fragmented pieces and nerves. He was determined not to make a fool of himself this time. It was not going well so far.

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat and decided to dive in. From what he remembered of the day before, she seemed a forthright kind of girl. “I’m Fitz. You’re Daisy, right?”

He offered his hand, and Daisy shook it, with a smile like she was amused by the offer.

“Yep, that’s me. Sorry for making you late the other day.”

“No, it was my bad. I mean, I was already late. Running into you was just a bonus.” 

She let him hear it, in case he wished to make an amendment before she jumped on it. 

“A bonus?”

Fitz blushed, but didn’t back out. 

“Yeah, a bonus,” he admitted. His eyes held a glint of competition to them; was he inspiring himself, or challenging her? Daisy stared him down for a few seconds, and slowly drew his pen from the pencilcase that she actually had managed to remember today. 

“It was a bonus for me too,” she said, letting her tone linger a little long and a little dark, just enough for him to wonder. Then, dropping back to a bright conversational tone, she added: “I got a pen out of it! I mean I assume I did. I can’t really give this back. I kinda chewed all over it.”

Fitz laughed and shook his head. His blush was quite obvious, but he did not splutter an attempt to defend himself, nor crawl back into himself with pity. He took her tease with admiration, and puffed his chest, turning to display his confidence like a peacock as the tutor walked into the front of the room. Daisy frowned, and realised almost instantly that might have been what he’d wanted. To show her he was not fazed. And yet, he had been blushing, she was sure.

Daisy pursed her lips. Now she was certainly intrigued. And Fitz might not be a rollercoaster like she was used to, but perhaps he wouldn’t be as dull as she’d speculated after all. 

Humming to herself, Daisy leaned over to try and learn more about him. Like maybe the rest of his name? Or some of his other classes? Or what he was doing with that ridiculously oversized sketchpad in a computing class? 

Instead, she found herself surprised once again, and further intrigued, when she saw, dotted over the open pages, several iterations of a familiar face. A very familiar face. One that she herself had spent a considerable amount of time memorizing recently.

“You know Jemma?” she blurted.

“Who?” Fitz glanced at Daisy, then down at his sketches. He moved to cover them up, but didn’t bother, since she’d already seen them – and had presented something irresistibly interesting in return.

“Jemma. Simmons.” Daisy pointed at the page. “I know her. She’s my roommate! I could introduce you if you like?” 

“Oh, no,” Fitz objected insistently. “That wouldn’t be – that wouldn’t be fair –“

The tutor cleared his throat.

“Mr Fitz, Ms Johnson, is there something you’d like to discuss with the rest of the class?” 

They looked at each other, then at him.

“No, sir,” they answered in unison.

The moment passed, and they listened to their instructions and set about their work for a few minutes. Then Daisy reached across and scribbled – quite neatly, despite Fitz’ initial horror – a note under one of the drawings of Jemma he had done.

 _So just to be clear, you do like Jemma right?_  

She underlined “like,” so the implication could not be avoided. Fitz hesitated long enough for curiosity to sink its teeth in, before replying,

_Yes_

He focused his eyes so determinedly on his screen that Daisy had to prod him to read her next message: 

_But?_

Swallowing, Fitz wrote – slow and shaky, as if walking out onto a ledge.

_I like someone else too_

_Who?_

Daisy bit her lip. She couldn’t tell if she was surprised or not, that Fitz met her eyes. 

-

Simmons held the dress up before her eyes, and sighed, as it began to sink in that she might never be able to get the stain out properly without discolouring the fabric. There must be something else she could try. Maybe she should talk to Bobbi? Or maybe Daisy might know. She had surprising amounts of knowledge on surprising topics. But she was also unendingly curious and probative, and Simmons wasn’t exactly eager for her to find out that she was the reason for the stain in the first place. 

Okay, not _the reason._ But it would come out all the same.

Simmons sighed, and let the material of the dress bunch up as she let it rest on the bench beside the sink at which she’d been working. She’d made the stain herself, by sitting out by the river on duck feces or something, thinking. Thinking about what she was doing, what she wanted. How much she’d wanted to abandon going out, and throw everything she had at Daisy. Instead, she’d abandoned going out for sitting in a pile of poo. It was times like this she was almost tempted to believe the universe was telling her something - but rather than give in, she rolled her eyes and stared up at the ceiling. 

“What am I doing?” she asked herself. 

She’d been thinking about Daisy too much, and while the temptations associated with those thoughts were not cosmic, they were nonetheless alluring. She’d been tempted to invite Daisy to lunch every day, even when they were on opposite sides of campus. Tempted to stare at her instead of listening while she talked. And, most alarmingly of all, tempted to kiss her when all she’d been doing was painting…with such a soft, lingering touch… 

Simmons reached into the sink and scooped the frothy water onto her face. The soft, warm memory of Daisy doing her makeup was flushed away immediately. Then she remembered she’d put some chemicals in there that probably shouldn’t be on a person’s face, and dove for the facial towel and some clean water to wash it away, just in case. 

“What am I _doing?!”_ she whispered into the towel, cursing her own apparent incompetence. She needed to get away from all chemicals, slippery surfaces, and sharp objects as soon as possible and just…do nothing until her brain decided to function correctly again. She should go write out those notes about evolution or something. Something nice and easy. Yes. Good. 

But no sooner had she dragged herself to the desk – unable to shake the clammy, soaked feeling from cleaning, and instead settling for raking her hair out of her face - than she regretted it. She had left her biology notes open to the page with the monkeys, and on sight, remembered the boy who had drawn them. Now, why hadn’t she just asked him out? He was beautiful. Interesting, certainly, and she could put up with a little arrogance for that; she had more than a little to dish out herself. And, physically, he was very pleasing to the eye. Just…beautiful. His limbs, his movements. Handsome, really, if in a bit of an atypical, unusually string-bean-ish way. Why had she simply not asked him out, then? Or for his number? Or for his name, at least? Then she never would have felt Daisy’s entrancing touch or ruined her dress feeling sorry for herself on the riverbank. _And_ she wouldn’t be thinking about entering a relationship with someone she’d have to live with if it went wrong – if anything with the boy in biology failed, she would only have to endure a few hours of awkwardness and suffering for the rest of semester.

Simmons sighed again. Was her ease of getting out of a relationship seriously going to be a consideration here? Could she ignore the hope and excitement that Daisy’s lingering touch and trailing eyes had inspired in her, any more than she could ignore the way Monkey Boy had puffed out his chest and showed off the dexterity of his hands to impress her?

“Be decent!” Daisy called as she pushed open the door. 

Simmons buried her face in her hands. The desk where she was sitting faced away from the doorway, but her skin was still covered in water, and there was probably still soap in her hair. Her hands would be reddened and her hair and clothes disheveled. And the dress – a huge sopping hunk of material – was still slapped across the bathroom bench. The floor was probably flooded too. Simmons groaned aloud. She had made so much more of a mess than she’d planned, and now Daisy was home and she had no place to hide. 

“Jemma? You okay?”

“Yeah, sure!” Jemma insisted breathlessly. “Just trying to clean my bloody dress. I…spilt something on it yesterday.” 

Daisy raised her eyebrows. 

“Blood?”

“What?”

Distracted by her emotions, Simmons was slow to take up the joke. Daisy laughed gently and shook her head, and strode into the bathroom with her hands on her hips.

“Alright now, let’s have a look-see.”

Curious, and at the same time filling with dread, Simmons got up and followed Daisy to the bathroom.

“Well, it’s not blood,” Daisy evaluated. “Looks more like guacamole to me.”

“It’s duck poo,” Simmons confessed, entering the bathroom and taking the dress from Daisy, and letting it slop into the sink as her shoulders deflated. “I was –“ 

“NO!” Daisy yelped, and grabbed her wrist. “Don’t drop that in there!”

Daisy pulled the notebook from her hand before Simmons could put in on the flooded bench. Her eyes were drawn to the page’s contents immediately, and especially, one particular style that she recognised. Daisy turned the page around to show Simmons. 

“You know Fitz?” 

“I – well, I suppose? I never asked for his name.” 

“Hm. He didn’t know yours either.” 

“You spoke to him?”

Hopeful? Embarrassed? Both? Daisy pursed her lips. _Interesting._

“He’s in my computing class. I recognised his drawing style.”

“How? What was he drawing?” Simmons’ eyes widened for a moment, before she realised she was being obvious. “I mean. I just thought his art was good, is all.”

“Mmmmmhm,” Daisy purred. “I bet you did. He made you look _amazing.”_

“He – he drew _me?”_

Daisy smiled at the unmistakable combination of pride and abashment that was Jemma’s flattered face. She didn’t used to notice the way Jemma’s eyes fluttered closed when she was overwhelmed. But she did notice, with a tiny shock, that Jemma let her eyes linger closed this time, just for a moment. Daisy wondered what was going on behind those eyelids, just as she had done the night before, holding Jemma’s face between her hands, inches from being able to kiss her. 

She put that realisation – and the surge of probably foolish bravery it inspired in her - aside to think on later, and cleared her throat.

“Let’s clean this thing up, huh?” 

-

That night, Fitz sat with his back against his bed and his knees up, with his design notebook splayed out and propped up by them. He sketched; not designs, this time, but faces. Daisy’s face, mostly, because he already had plenty of Jemma’s and Daisy deserved to catch up. He smiled to himself as he sketched. Sometimes he attempted their bodies as well, but he wasn’t as adept at those, since he’d only really studied their faces thus far.

Fitz didn’t have a separate book for non-design related art because he didn’t draw it much, so it wasn’t worth investing in. Tonight, it was. Tonight, he found himself strangely inspired by the feeling of longing and softness in his chest. He’d become used to the strangeness and unpredictability of his bodily functions a long time ago, but this was something different, and far nicer. He’d heard it described a few times, and felt it himself on more than one occasion before this one, but the added confidence he was feeling from his interactions with Daisy and Jemma proved an intoxicating combination. A _crush._  

He hadn’t had a huge amount of time for crushes earlier in life, but as he continued to climb the academic ladder and found the professional elements of his life increasingly self-fulfilling, he was happy just to let the feeling sit. Maybe he’d even do something about it. Or one of ‘it’, anyway. At least one? Musing, he hummed to himself and sketched away. He was in no rush.

He was happy just to sketch - but even happier, to his surprise, when his phone buzzed and it was Daisy, and he felt the smile in his cheeks before he had registered smiling. 

_Hey Monkey Boy, wanna catch a movie?_

She’d put an emoji at the end, a little kiss, with a heart rising from it. Fitz was glad she couldn’t see him at that moment, because he’d put a hand over his heart in a shocked manner he was certain she’d rip into immediately. Still, he hurried to text back:

_Sure. What/when?_

He put a monkey face at the end, for good measure, but then deleted it. He was awkward at the best of times. No need to fuel the fire. Especially when hers could have been a typo. Although it probably wasn’t, right? 

_Come now, we’ll decide when we get there?_

_Ok._

Fitz was still grinning as he picked his jacket up off the back of the chair, checked that his wallet was inside, and left with nothing else but his keys.

-

Fitz arrived to find Daisy already at the cinema, waiting in the foyer with a box of popcorn under one arm. She was looking around, probably for him. But just as he called out to her, she called out to someone else. Fitz slowed down on approach, watching for the other person. 

_Jemma._

His jaw flapped, and he stopped in his tracks. He checked the text again. Definite hearts. And – _Monkey Boy?_

He hadn’t talked about monkeys with Daisy. Only Jemma. Something was going on here. Had she changed her mind? Was it a joke? Or was it platonic after all, like he should have suspected from the beginning? 

“Oh, look!” Jemma gasped, and pointed. “Fitz is here!” 

She turned from him – he was approaching, still on the edge of hearing range – and blushed into the small space between herself and Daisy. 

“Are you setting us up?” she whispered. “I don’t – I don’t think I understand.” 

“I think you do,” Daisy insisted, and waved Fitz over. He had clearly seen the both of them, and approached curiously. 

“Daisy,” he greeted, shaking her hand. “And this must be Jemma?”

“Jemma, Fitz, Daisy. Daisy, Fitz, Jemma,” Daisy greeted, gesturing between them. “Yep, that’s everyone.” 

“So we’re all going in together?” Fitz checked.  
  
“Sure.” Daisy shrugged, held up three tickets, and watched their faces closely. Fitz and Simmons studied each other, nervous, but the good kind of nervous. Daisy hoped. Just in case, she braced herself for one or both of them to go off at how ridiculously embarrassing or shameful this was, but nothing happened.

“So,” Simmons checked eventually, “we’re all going in… _together?”_

She pulled out her phone and showed Fitz: 

_Hey babe, wanna catch a movie?_

And the same kissing emoji, with little hearts. Fitz held his phone out as well, and Jemma frowned in recognition. She reached for his phone as if to study it closer, but he was already showing the screen to Daisy. Simmons showed hers as well, and waited for an explanation.

“Now you’re getting it,” Daisy prompted.

“You invited us both?” Fitz wondered. 

“But you’re not setting us up?” Jemma frowned. 

“I’m not setting _you_ up,” Daisy clarified. Rocking on her feet, she waited, as the realisation dawned on their faces. After enjoying a few delicious moments of satisfaction, she explained:

“I invited both of you here because…I like both of you. And I think you both like each other. Would I be right about that?” 

Blushes and a side-eye, a shared glance between them, gave Fitz and Simmons away.

“Soooo, I decided to ask you both out so you can ask each other out and we can get this thing happening. Win-win-win, right?”

Fitz and Simmons looked at each other again, slowly building the confidence to linger and eventually, to speak. 

“Well, she’s not wrong,” Fitz confessed. 

“You drew me,” Simmons breathed, her eyes sparkling. 

“Do you mind?” Fitz mimicked her tone: hesitant, hopeful. 

“No.” 

Simmons beamed. Daisy, satisfied, grinned too.

“So it’s settled then?”

Fitz nodded, then Simmons, then Daisy. 

Then:

“So, wait,” Fitz interrupted one more time. “What are we seeing?”


End file.
